Occupational Hazards
by Fox Murphy
Summary: Being an Auror means a life of risks and danger. No one makes it out unscathed. Death Eaters, after all, do not believe in playing fair.


A/N - Doing some today "spring cleaning" and I found this story, which I'd written some time ago and tucked away for later. Consider this a teaser of sorts - there's certainly more to come, don't worry. But not for quite some time, as I've got a couple other stories to finish and some characters to introduce before anything more can be added here. So, this is complete for now, but to be continued in the long run.

Also, special thanks goes to my dear brother, without who I likely would not have even remotely considered this idea (or, perhaps I would have, just not nearly so soon).

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_"Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seamed with scars;" - Chapin_

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Just one more step. One step forward, the movement soundless save for the dull, metallic click that rings out in answer, sharp against the drizzling spatter of rain. He freezes, heart suddenly racing, and he's looking down at his foot, staring in confusion at the metal object half-hidden by the dirt beneath.

One heartbeat, two, and then all the world is roaring and white hot and he's falling very far and very fast. The ground rises up to meet him, hard and unforgiving, the smell of damp earth and smoke and the horrible scent of something burning. There's a weightlessness, and his ears are ringing, and Merlin but he can't see properly and someone is screaming and his heart is still racing in his chest, fast, too fast. He reaches for his wand but his arm doesn't seem to want to move and the pain explodes over him in a sudden rush that radiates upward from his very toes. Rain is still falling, splattering onto his face cold and steady, and his hands decide to work again and they're scrabbling at his chest, his face, and coming away covered in red. Part of his mind notes that this is likely a _very bad thing_, and that he should get up, get help. Another part, a much louder part, seems to be screaming in tandem with whoever is screaming in the abandoned field. Then there are hands and faces, mouths moving and silent words, because his ears are still ringing and he doesn't know what they're saying. For a moment he's seeing ghosts who shouting frantically in the twilight, wand light casting strange colors across their faces. There's a blurred reddish shape standing a few feet away, firing bursts of bright light into the distance, back to back with a great, moving shadow. A grey-eyed girl leans in close enough for him to see her as more than a vague blur, her face gravely serious. She's pressed one hand against his forehead and is speaking rapidly, the same words over and over but he still doesn't know what she's saying, can't hear a word over the ringing in his ears and the screaming. He has half a mind to tell that idiot to shut up, before their position is given away. Black creeps in at the edge of his vision, shadowed wings fluttering, growing every second, and he's clutching at someone's hand as darkness and pain and fire swallow him whole...

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Consciousness returns in a rush of color and light and sound, blurs of blues and whites and reds that twist sickeningly. The pain registers next, deeper and more awful than anything he's ever felt, as though he's been ripped and shredded and torn to pieces. An incessant buzz echoes, and he's moving, and his stomach heaves but he never ate dinner and nothing comes up. He's aware that he's floating, moving, and his hands are wrapped in a death grip around someone or something, his sole connection to the world. If it weren't for the awful, awful pain that enfolds him, he'd say that he was dead, but death is supposed to be glorious, painless, nothing like this. Nothing like this. Merlin, but Minerva is going to kill him when she finds out what happened, although he's still not entirely sure himself what precisely happened in that empty field. There are fragments of a memory, broken and split into pieces that refuse to reassemble. Rain on an old field, cloudy skies, the remains of a long-rotted barn jutting against the sky. Faces and names in the shadows, scarlet robes and swift movements. Ready for the signal. The sound of metal, click and pop, and then all the world is bright and fire and pain and he can't tell where the memory stops, slips into the present, as something jars him and there's screaming again, loud and agonized. Breathing doesn't seem to want to come easy, and his vision is still badly distorted, all colors and smeared shapes. There are voices shouting somewhere in the distance, and the screaming at last begins to end, drifting away on the wind in the wake of the rhythm of bangs and snaps. Then the floating stops and there's hard surface beneath him, and the smell of damp earth, the feel of wind and rain and grass, they've vanished, replaced by warm air and a clean smell. Or what had been a clean smell, somewhere below the sweat and wet wool and the strong, coppery scent of blood that hangs heavy in the air. The smell is overpowering, turns his stomach, and he heaves again, struggles to move, but something holds him back, holds him down. Everything hurts, but his legs hurt most of all, and suddenly the pain is unbearable and he knows this time it's him that's screaming, desperate for someone to make the pain stop. He's trying to move now, he's been hurt, he needs to heal whatever's been hurt. Find his wand, fix the damage, finish the mission. Only he can't find his wand and he can't see the damage and he can't remember much of the mission save for that same overgrown field and a gaping ditch in the earth, the echo of metal in the rain. Gentle hands take hold of him, familiar voices drown out the others. Names escape him, elusive and slippery as phantoms, refusing to stick to the faces that look down at him. A blond man with still-damp curls, shouting orders in the directions of a startled young man in green robes. There's a fire-haired man who moves as a blur of reds and scarlets, striding ahead and knocking open a set of doors with a crash. A man with dark hair and dark eyes and a jagged cut down one side of his face towering nearby, looking as though he's trying very hard not to be ill. The air feels heavy and wet and hurts to breath, and his heart is racing too fast, pounding against his chest as another wave of pain radiates up through him. Someone is speaking, softly beneath all the shouting and screaming, and he realizes it's probably the same person whose hand he's nearly crushing.

"Moody."

_That's your name _some distant part of his mind seems to remember. He tries to answer but he can't, his throat raw and aching and too tired to manage words, but the hand that he's holding squeezes back at last, barely any pressure in comparison but enough to draw his attention.

"Alastor," the grey-eyed girl is frowning down at him worriedly, pale face marked by cuts and gashes and a smear of blood. "You're going to be fine."

Her words are far away, and her eyes flicker away from his face for a moment, looking over the rest of him, her frown deepening. He can't tell if she's trying to reassure him or herself when she repeats the words a moment later, more of a breathed prayer than a statement, as though trying to invoke some ancient power, some otherworldly mercy. The world suddenly bumps and slips and jars, and if the pain was bad before it's worse now, so much worse, and Merlin he'll do anything to make this stop. Cold creeps in, a tendril-like hold on his hands and feet and he's vaguely aware that he's shaking.

There are more faces now, strange faces that have no names, only green robes and the smell of potions and blood and death. The new faces are closing in, pushing away the blond and the dark haired man, doing their best to pry away the frowning girl.

"You're going to be alright," the girl says for the third time, and he can't honestly say that he believes her, here in this place where the cold is claiming him and all the world has taken on a bright, fuzzy edge. There's shouting, and a couple of very loud bangs, but the girl remains standing beside him, the fire-haired man behind her, urging her to leave, to step away. And there's a sudden flare of panic, because he doesn't want to be alone, doesn't want to die alone among these strangers who all watch him with cool detachment. He scrabbles for the girl's hand, knows he should know her name, remember her name, but he can't, and all he can think is that she can't leave him. Not here.

"P-please."

His own voice sounds rough and awful to his ears and he winces, though the motion earns him a fresh wave of staggering pain. The girl isn't frowning anymore, she just looks horribly, terribly sad.

"We'll be here when you wake up. And you'd better bloody well wake up."

Then the girl leans in, still holding his hand tight in hers as one of the strangers does something to his leg that feels very much like the limb has been set on fire. He's writhing and trying hard not to scream again and Merlin but he wants to wake up in his own bed, wake up from this nightmare.

"I'm going to get Minerva," the girl says, whispering, "I'm going to find her and I'll bring her here and she'll be waiting for you. Don't you dare leave her waiting."

Alastor takes one shuddering breath, then another, locks eyes with the girl who now wears a fierce look. Well, fierce until he realizes that she's crying, and that the fire-haired man behind her has tear streaks down his own dirt-covered face. The girl's hand slips away and she and the fire-haired man vanish from his sight, a door banging shut in the distance. Then the strangers close in, and there's fire and pain and hurt, so much hurt, and the screaming comes back and he doesn't even try to stop. _Minerva will be waiting. _He clings to the thought, holding as tightly as he had to the girl's hand. The shuddering is worse now, violent and aching as the cold that envelopes him. The strangers, the healers, they begin to sound slightly frantic, but their voices are distant and echoed and all Alastor wants is to sleep. White light explodes across his vision, followed closely by a swarm of deep and utter blackness, and the voices of the healers fade to nothing as darkness overtakes him once more.


End file.
